Slowly Haplo lifted his left hand and was bringing it near his head when he saw that it was swathed in strips of cloth. Memory glimmered, shining a feeble ray of light into the darkness of pain that surrounded him. All the more reason to rid himself of this debilitating injury. Gritting his teeth, moving with elaborate care so as not to make the slightest sound, Haplo reached across with his right hand and tugged at the cloth covering the left. Wrapped in between the fingers, it did not come completely loose but gave way enough so that the back of the left hand was partially exposed.
The skin was covered with tattoos. The whirls and whorls, curls and curves, were done in colors of red and blue and were seemingly fanciful in nature and design. Yet each sigil had its separate and special meaning, which, when combined with other sigla that they touched, expanded into meaning upon meaning.[9] Prepared to freeze his motion at the barest hint that someone was watching him, Haplo raised his arm and pressed the back of his hand upon the gash in his forehead.
The circle was joined. Warmth streamed from his hand to his head, flowed through his head to his arm, from his arm back to his hand. Sleep would follow, and while his body rested, pain would ease, the wound would close, internal injuries would be healed, complete memory and awareness would be restored on his awaking. With his waning strength, Haplo arranged the cloth so that it covered his hand. His arm fell limply, striking a hard surface beneath him. A cold nose thrust into his palm ... a soft muzzle rubbed against his fingers. . . .
Spear in hand, Haplo faced the two chaodyn. His only emotion was anger—a fiery, raging fury that burned up fear. He was within sight of his goal. The Last Gate was visible on the horizon. To reach it, he had only to cross a vast open prairie that had looked empty when he reconnoitered. He should have known. The Labyrinth would never let him escape. It would hurl every weapon it had in its possession at him. But the Labyrinth was smart. Its malevolent intelligence had fought against the Patryns for a thousand years before a few had been able to gain the skills to conquer it. Twenty-five gates[10] Haplo had lived and fought, only to be defeated in the end. For there was no way he could win. The Labyrinth had allowed him to get well into the empty prairie without so much as a single tree or boulder on which to set his back. And it had pitted him against two chaodyn.
Chaodyn are deadly foes. Bred of the insane magic of the Labyrinth, the intelligent giant insectlike creatures are skilled in the use of all weapons (these two were using broadswords). Tall as a man, with a hard black-shelled body, bulbous eyes, four arms, and two powerful back legs, a chaodyn can be killed—everything in the Labyrinth can be killed. But in order to slay one, you have to hit it directly in the heart, destroying it instantly. For if it lives, even a second, it will cause a drop of its own blood to spring into a copy of itself, and the two of them, whole and undamaged, will continue the fight.
Haplo faced two of these, and he had only one rune-marked spear and his hunting dagger left. If his weapons missed their mark and wounded his opponent he would face four chaodyn. Missing again, he would face eight. No, he could not win.
The two chaodyn were moving, one drifting off to Haplo’s right, the other to his left. When he attacked one, the other would strike him from behind. The Patryn’s only chance would be to kill the first outright with his spear, then turn and fight the other.
This strategy in mind, Haplo backed up, feinting first toward one, then the other, forcing them to keep their distance. They did so, toying with him, knowing that they had him, for chaodyn enjoy playing with their victims and will rarely kill outright if there is a chance they can have some sport. Angered beyond rational thought, no longer caring whether he lived or died, wanting only to strike out at these creatures and, through them, at the Labyrinth, Haplo called on a lifetime of fear and despair and used the strength of his rage and frustration to power his throw. The spear flew from his hand; he shouted after it the rune calls that would send it flying swift and straight to his enemy. His aim was good, the spear tore through the insect’s black carapace, and it fell backward, dead before it hit the ground. A flash of pain shot through Haplo. Gasping in agony, he wrenched his body aside and whirled to face his other foe. He could feel his blood, warm against his chill skin, flow from the wound. The chaodyn cannot use the rune magic, but long experience battling the Patryns has given them the knowledge of where the tattooed body is vulnerable to attack. The head is the best target. This chaodyn, however, had stabbed its sword into Haplo’s back. Obviously the insect did not want to kill him, not yet.
Haplo’s spear was gone. It was hunting dagger against broadsword. Haplo could either run in under the chaodyn’s guard and strike directly for the heart or he could risk a throw. His knife—used for skinning, honing, cutting—did not have runes of flight inscribed upon it. If he missed, he would be weaponless and probably facing two foes. But he had to end the battle soon. He was losing blood and he lacked a shield with which to parry the chaodyn’s sword blows. The chaodyn, realizing Haplo’s dilemma, swung its huge blade. Aiming for the left arm, the insect tried to cut it off—disabling its enemy but not yet killing. Haplo saw the blow coming and dodged as best he could, turning to meet it with his shoulder. The blade sank deep, bone crunched. The pain nearly made Haplo black out. He could no longer feel his left hand, let alone use it. The chaodyn fell back, recovering, getting itself into position for the next strike. Haplo gripped his dagger and fought to see through a red haze that was fast dimming his vision. He didn’t care about his life anymore. His hatred had gained control. The last sensation he wanted to feel before his death was satisfaction in knowing he had taken his enemy with him.
The chaodyn lifted the blade again, preparing to launch another torturing blow at its helpless victim. Calm with despair, lost in a stupor that was not entirely feigned, Haplo waited. He had a new strategy. It meant he would die, but so would his foe. The insect arm swung back, and at the same moment, a black shape leapt out from somewhere behind Haplo and launched itself straight at the chaodyn.
Confused by this sudden and unexpected attack, the chaodyn glanced away from Haplo to see what was coming at it, and, in so doing, shifted the angle of its sword thrust to meet this new foe. Haplo heard a pain-filled yelp, a whimper, and had the vague impression of a furry body falling to the ground. He didn’t pay any attention to what it had been. The chaodyn, lowering its arms to strike at the new threat, had left its chest exposed. Haplo aimed his dagger straight for the heart.
The chaodyn saw its danger and attempted to recover, but Haplo had come in too close. The insect creature’s sword sliced into the Patryn’s side, glancing off his ribs. Haplo never felt it. He drove his dagger into the chaodyn’s chest with such force that they both toppled over backward and crashed to the ground.
Rolling off the body of his enemy, Haplo did not bother to try to stand. The chaodyn was dead. Now he, too, could die and find peace, like so many others before him. The Labyrinth had won. He had fought it, though. Even to the end. Haplo lay on the ground and let his life seep out of his body. He could have tried to heal himself, but that would have required effort, movement, more pain. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to hurt anymore. He yawned, feeling sleepy. It was pleasant to lie here and know that soon he wouldn’t have to fight ever again.
A low whining sound caused him to open his eyes, not so much in fear as in irritation that he wasn’t going to be allowed to die in peace. Turning his head slightly, he saw a dog. So that Was the black furry thing that had attacked the chaodyn. Where had it come from? Presumably it had been out in the prairie, perhaps hunting, and had come to his aid.
9
Much as two words, each with its own definition, can be combined to form a third word with a meaning all its own, yet deriving from the other two. This is a very crude explanation of the rune language of the Patryns, who can create a wide variety of magical effects with the placement of each sigil in relationship to others.
10
Patryns in the Labyrinth measure age in terms of “gates.” This probably began in the early days of their imprisonment, when a person’s age was determined by the number of gates through which he or she had passed—this passage being the most important symbol in their society.
When the Lord of the Nexus eventually returned to the Labyrinth to gain partial control over it with his magic, he established a standardized system of timekeeping (based on the regular sun cycles in the Nexus) to which the term “gate” now applies.